


Endless Nights

by GravityCanFly



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Douglas!whump, Douglas's drunken past, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Pain, Prompt Fill, god i need sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:25:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GravityCanFly/pseuds/GravityCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Cabin Pressure prompt meme:<br/>Exhausted!Douglas<br/>Douglas goes through an extended period where he either doesn't sleep at all or the sleep he does get is restless and broken. Of course, rather than tell anyone, he tries to handle it himself, and is something much less than successful,. How long does it take someone to notice and what do they do about it? </p><p>You all know I'm a sucker for Douglas needing to be looked after so I had to fill it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As I Lay Dying

**Author's Note:**

> This is now complete!

The blankets fell to the floor with a soft thump. The numbers of a digital clock cast a slight orange glow over the room. 01:47. A long sigh escaped him.

The long hot bath he had taken more than three hours before had not had the soporific affect he had intended. Nor had the hot milk he had drank slowly afterwards or the lavender oil he had sprinkled on his pillows in desperation. He switched on the bedside light and picked up his book. The copy of _As I Lay Dying_ had been on the go for weeks, a specially selected boring book chosen to lull him to sleep on nights like this one. On this occasion, however, the dry prose failed to do the job, instead simply draining him of his will to live. Three chapters later the book joined the blankets on the floor.

He glanced at the clock again and counted how much sleep he could get if he fell asleep right now. Barely more than three hours. He cursed aloud. He wouldn’t be in hours to fly, not that he would admit it. He had flown after more sleepless nights than this before. Sometimes he thought he might be a safer pilot on no sleep than he was after a full eight hours.

He reached over the side of the bed to retrieve the blankets. He curled up in them and started counting backwards from one hundred in German.

-

“Coffee chaps!” Arthur announced, skipping into the flight deck.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Martin replied, glancing over his shoulder.

Arthur put the mugs down beside each pilot and stood expectantly.

“Something you need, Arthur?” Douglas asked at last.

“Um, no.” Arthur said. “Just waiting for you to say thank you.”

Douglas threw the steward a look. It had been said with no hint of malice. “Thank you, Arthur,” he conceded. He took an exploratory sip of the coffee, made a face, and then drained the mug. He held it out to Arthur. “Another, if you would be so kind.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Alright!” he said excitedly, “back in a mo,” and dashed back into the galley.

“Are you planning on drinking so much coffee you spend half the flight in the loo and I have to operate all the way?” Martin murmured.

“If that is the approximate amount of coffee it would take to wire a small horse, then yes.”

Martin glanced back at the sullen face of his first officer. “Sleep alright?” he enquired, carefully keeping his tone mild.

“Very well, thank you,” Douglas said firmly.

A cool silence descended on the flight deck as Martin examined his charts and Douglas maintained a steely gaze through the windshield. Arthur burst into the flight deck and set two mugs of coffee down beside Douglas.

Douglas glanced down at the mugs, then up at Arthur and back again. “Are you taking the piss?”

“No!” Arthur cried, hurt. “You know I can only make two cups at a time.”

-

The flight continued as all flights do. Arthur brought in coffee at regular intervals, soon forgetting his slight run-in with the grumpy first officer. Carolyn barked orders and threats over the satcom seemingly at random. Martin mused that perhaps she made excuses to call when Herc was getting on her nerves. Douglas remarked that if that were the case she would call so often they would never get to speak to ATC.

Approximately five hours into their nine-hour flight Arthur appeared with a choice of tepid congealed-round-the-edges pasta bake or stew and dumplings at the approximate temperature of lava. A quick game of rock-paper-scissors ensured that Douglas got the stew, though it didn’t feel a great victory.

Three hours of ‘if Ian Fleming had written Winnie the Pooh’ passed before the pilots had to turn their attention to some flying and skirt round a thunderstorm. Thoroughly annoyed with the weather, ATC and one another, they landed an hour later than planned. Arthur’s phone buzzed with missed calls as soon as he turned it back on. His mother, apparently, was not best pleased by the delay.

-

“Hell of a day,” Martin muttered, throwing his paper napkin onto the table and stretching. Douglas made an agreeable noise.

“It was great!” Arthur cried. “I love diverting round storms!”

The pilots turned dead eyes on the steward. He grinned back.

Martin rolled his eyes. “Your mother gave me the brandy. Drink?”

Arthur nodded enthusiastically. It was tradition to have a measure of brandy each before bed when they were far from home. It made the cheap hotels feel a little cosier, the blankets a little softer, the nights a little easier. After today’s flight it was more than welcome.

To call the dining area of the hotel a restaurant was to overstate its role. They were alone in a deserted room of folding tables and hard plastic chairs. They had been presented with a slightly odd selection of food that appeared to have been gathered at random from a nearby convenience store and left to it. Martin poured a slug of brandy into his and Arthur’s glasses.

Douglas watched the brown liquid flow and settle into the tumblers, two minute oceans on the table still capable of sinking ships. He could remember precisely the taste of good brandy, the earthy sweetness of it and the warmth of the alcohol. That the brandy on the table was not good brandy was neither here nor there. He watched Arthur cough after his first mouthful as he inevitably did, always forgetting that it wasn’t pineapple juice and couldn’t be gulped down. He longed for it. He couldn’t help but imagine the way his blood vessels would dilate, making him feel warm. He knew a couple of glasses would distance himself enough from his mind to finally get some sleep.

The chair scraped across the floor with a screech as Douglas stood abruptly.

“Alright, Douglas?” Martin raised his eyebrows at the stricken-looking man.

“Fine, fine.” Douglas almost stammered on his words. He took a breath and composed himself. “Just going to head upstairs. See you in the morning.”

-

Another car sped past, engine roaring in the night. A couple of minutes of relative quiet, then another. Douglas lay on the thin mattress, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Like lines on a map, they met and then parted. Another car roared past. His back ached from the flight and the bed wasn’t helping. He rolled over with a wince and closed his eyes. He was going to go to sleep now. He was. He absolutely was.

-

Light filtered through the curtains, glinting off the dust particles in the air. The traffic noise was less now; ten or fifteen minutes passed between each roaring engine. Douglas sat up, his hair falling in his face. He checked the time on his phone. 04:17. He groaned and fell back onto the pillow. He knew he wouldn’t get any sleep now. The chances were he wouldn’t get any more sleep at all until he was so exhausted he couldn’t hold his head up anymore. He cursed silently. This was going to be a very long day.

-

“‘Hang on, have you got Godot’s mobile number?’” Douglas suggested drily.

Martin laughed. “Okay… uhm… ‘No Gatsby, I will not set you up with my married cousin.’”

“‘Well, John, being a successful doctor in a central London hospital, I don’t really know anyone looking for a flatshare.’”

“Ooh, what are we playing?” Arthur asked, appearing suddenly.

“Lines that would have made for a much shorter book,” Martin explained.

“Oh!” Arthur paused, thinking. Every so often he opened his mouth and then stopped, opening and closing it in a sort of parody of a goldfish.

“Perhaps you could come back to us with that later.”

“Right!” Arthur’s ‘thinking hard’ frown disappeared at once. “Here you are, Douglas,” he said, setting down the coffee at last.

“Only the one?” Douglas asked mildly, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Yup,” Arthur nodded, smiling proudly. He didn’t think it worth mentioning that the second cup was sitting in the galley waiting to be microwaved next time coffee was required.

Douglas gulped down the coffee quickly, drinking it purely out of necessity and ignoring the taste. He pretended not to notice that Martin was watching him with a quizzical expression and turned his attention to the charts.

It soon became clear to Douglas that he had made a tactical error. It started with creeping nausea, then his hands sweating and shaking. He took a few deep breaths, telling himself it would pass in a moment. His heart was pounding in his chest. He felt suddenly feverish and found his fingernails dug deep into his wrist. He was going to pass out or throw up at any moment, he was sure. He closed his eyes and counted his breaths in and out.

“Douglas?” Martin watched his first officer for a minute or two before he spoke, hoping he would open his eyes and everything would be fine.

A pause, then Douglas opened his eyes and glanced at Martin. “Sorry Captain,” he said, “feeling a bit weird. You have control.”

“I have control.” Martin confirmed, eyes still on Douglas. He pressed the intercom button. “Arthur, glass of water please.”

Arthur appeared at once and stopped dead when he saw Douglas, by now hunched over in his seat with his head in his hands.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Martin said calmly, taking the water and handing it to Douglas. His hand shook as he received it.

“What’s wrong with Douglas?” Arthur stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.

“Just a headache,” Douglas said, “it’s nothing.”

“There’s a reason we have two pilots.” Martin smiled at the worried-looking steward. Arthur nodded. Martin leant towards Douglas and whispered, “Do you need to go and lie down in the cabin?”

Douglas shook his head. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

“‘I love green eggs and ham!’” Arthur cried.

“What?”

“Lines that would finish the book quicker…” Arthur said, his face falling. “Green eggs and ham…”

Douglas and Martin exchanged glances.

“Yes. Very good, Arthur.”

-

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Martin asked, looking up from his paperwork.

“Yes. I feel completely normal now. I was probably just dehydrated or something.”

“Right,” Martin nodded, “because there’s probably some paperwork we need to fill in about that.”

“Oh, no,” Douglas groaned. “It’s really not necessary.”

“If you’d been flying alone?”

“I wouldn’t have been in the air for six hours if I’d been flying alone, it wouldn’t have happened.” Douglas held Martin’s gaze. “Skip the paperwork this time? It won’t happen again.” Douglas spoke confidently, but there was a slight edge to his voice.

Martin nodded. “Fine. Go home. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

-

Douglas locked the front door behind him and sank onto the sofa. His head was throbbing. Caffeine is an awful drug. Wonderful, right up to the moment when you have too much of it. Then it becomes truly awful. He was familiar with this already. In the early days of his sobriety he had absolutely no idea how to fall asleep without alcohol, and so spent days and weeks propping himself up with caffeine. He hadn’t been flying then, though. At that point he hadn’t even known if he would be declared fit to fly again. Still, it didn’t seem fair that giving up an addiction to one drug led him to be reliant on another.

The insomnia predated the drinking. It probably played a large part in causing the drinking. Once upon a time he had been prescribed tranquilisers and sleeping pills to keep himself sane and healthy when the insomnia struck. Now his liver protested against any such medicines. Upon being told that they let him do his job, his doctor had said he had to choose between his job and his life. For Isobel, he had chosen his life.

-

When he woke up it was dark. His headache was still there but felt further away. He looked at his watch, hoping to find that it was late and that he had slept. Half-past seven. He groaned, pulling himself upright. He had slept for less than an hour and now his neck ached along with the rest of him. He tried to rub the confusion from his eyes. Strange disjointed images crowded his mind, left over from the dream he had been having. Non-linear and utterly nonsensical it was somehow still distressing and lingered uncomfortably.

He climbed the stairs slowly, trying to ground himself with the feel of carpet underfoot, and turned on the shower.

-

9 o’clock came and went. Dinner was cooked, eaten, washed up and put away. Piano keys were tickled briefly, but proved incompatible with the headache. Television channels were flicked through and passed over, offering unengaging and unoriginal fare. An inviting book was picked out and peered at. He couldn’t get through more than a few sentences before the words started swimming and melting together. At 11pm he gave up and went to bed, still knowing that sleep would evade him.

-

Dawn seemed to be the worst thing. The sky turned from black to blue through shades of ink, like milk being poured into an inkwell. The sun’s rays reached through the window, mocking him, reminding him that by all natural laws this process should be a mystery to him. The sunrise should happen behind his back.

 _As I Lay Dying_ lay on the floor on the other side of the room, where it had fallen after it was hurled out of the bed in frustration. Dying, possibly. Perhaps this time it would shut up about it. Douglas rolled onto his back and threw his arm across the bed. It landed with a satisfyingly heavy thump on the pillow. He turned his glare on the ceiling. The fact he could see the ceiling was reason enough to subject it to his wrath.

Finally - _finally_ \- the alarm on his phone sounded indicating that it was 7 o’clock. Under normal circumstances it would take the house on fire to get him out of bed at 7am on his day off. Today hours of growing frustration made him so restless he leapt out of bed as soon as the alarm went off. His head swam as he stood up, confused by the sudden change in orientation. He grabbed onto the headboard for stability until his head cleared. Moments after letting go he found that his headache had returned with a vengeance.

-

By 11am most of the items on his mental to do list had been crossed off. The sound of the washing machine spinning echoed through the house. He threw back two more aspirin with the dregs of his tea and lay back on the sofa. Radio 4 droned needlessly next to him. A pair of indistinct old Oxonians debated the virtues of monogamous relationships in the modern age. Douglas buried his face in his hands, trying to squeeze the pain out of his head.

His phone ringing roused him from the half-sleep he had fallen into. His head felt thick and heavy and the ringing cut through him like a knife. He tried to shake the dream away from him. Strange visions of planes falling out the sky, himself both flying and watching them.

He answered the phone without looking at it. He was surprised by how hoarse and thick with sleep his voice was.

“Douglas?” Martin’s voice came through the phone. Terrific. Just the person he wanted to hear from. He wished he had taken the time to check who was calling and then let it ring out. “Are you ill?”

“I’m fine. What do you want?”

Martin hesitated. “Uh… I’ve just been looking over the flight plan for tomorrow and I think we’re going to have to leave earlier than planned. Can you get to the airfield for 8?”

“Right, okay, fine. See you then.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Douglas pretended not to hear him, and hung up.


	2. Static

Martin’s van and Arthur’s car were already there when Douglas arrived at the airfield. G-ERTI’s door stood open and Arthur’s tuneless singing rolled out.

“Morning,” he greeted Martin in the portakabin.

“Morning, Douglas,” Martin replied. He glanced up from his paperwork at the clock. “I see you made some effort to get her earlier.”

Douglas grunted and sank into his chair.

“We’re about ready to go. Do you want to do the walk-around?” Martin pulled his various papers together. Douglas did not respond. Martin watched him for a few seconds, sitting sullenly and silently. He sighed. “It’s probably my turn anyway. I’ll meet you on the plane.”

“Morning Douglas!” Arthur bounded in, almost knocking Martin off his feet as he passed him. The steward’s enthusiastic progress only came to a stop when he collided with Douglas’s chair. Douglas threw a glare over his shoulder at the steward but kept his mouth shut. He didn’t _want_ to snap at Arthur, but it would be so easy… Arthur continued oblivious: “Did you have a good day off? I had great day off! Mum and Herc went out for lunch so they left me in the library and I found a book about penguins and I made a friend…”

“Alright!” Douglas snapped. “Thank you, Arthur.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and check the use-by dates on the soft drinks?”

“Oh! Righto!”

-

“Can you please remind me why we’re doing this?” Douglas moaned, his head resting heavily in his hand.

They were sitting in an airfield cafe - much like their own passenger lounge, this cafe seemed to be a lean-to with an espresso machine - waiting for a man to arrive with a box. What was inside the box was to be a mystery. That is to say it was to be a mystery to Douglas because he had decided that he did not care what was in the box or why it needed to be flown from Athens to Fitton. He understood that Greece was experiencing a financial crisis but he wasn’t aware that they had completely lost the concept of a postal service.

“We’re doing it because we’re paid to.”

“You’re not.”

“ _MJN_ is paid to.”

Douglas glanced over at his captain. “You do this because you enjoy it, right?”

Martin nodded.

“You really just _enjoy_ all of this?”

Martin looked down at his coffee. A draught whipped through the window to his left - something had fallen off when Arthur tried to close it, so it remained half-open. The steward was now crouched on the floor just outside making friends with a stray cat. A tip of G-ERTI’s wing was visible through the window. “I enjoy the flying,” he said eventually. “I’m a pilot.”

-

Douglas sank gratefully into his chair in the portakabin. Arthur set about making the tea and Martin sat down to his paperwork. They had had an argument with the tower before leaving and then fought weather all the way home. Under normal circumstances Douglas would still have managed to fit in a word game, but had this time been working hard just to stay present in the flight deck. He had felt a little better whilst concentrating on flying the plane, but as soon as they had landed safely his headache returned at full volume and then some. He wanted to go home, to curl up in his bed and, above all elsesleep, but knowing that wouldn’t happen he would be happy just to lie there on his own. He couldn’t seem to think clearly enough to find a way to persuade Martin that the paperwork could wait a few days for his signature so he simply crossed his arms on his desk and rested his head on them.

“Douglas?” Martin’s voice interrupted the dense fog in his mind. He groaned. He never could figure out how it was possible to be this tired and still not able to sleep. “Douglas?” Martin said again.

Douglas pulled himself upright to meet Martin’s eyes. He felt like he was moving through thick soup.

Martin frowned. “Paperwork’s done, just need you to sign.” He indicated the pages on the desk. Douglas picked up a pen and moved through the papers quickly, finding the pages he needed to sign and putting his name on them. Martin stood by his side, watching him, and waiting. “Thanks.”

Douglas nodded. “See you tomorrow, then. Standby, right?”

Martin nodded. Douglas stood, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair as he did so. He took a step and then stopped. His head was swimming. A wave of nausea rolled over him. A fire started in his belly and engulfed him. He grabbed the edge of the table and held on as the room suddenly lurched sideways.

-

He was static. Like an old television without an analogue signal, he buzzed. Every part of him tingled. Somehow even his vision and hearing tingled.

“Douglas?” A voice came from somewhere above him. He blinked a few times and he could make out Martin’s face hovering above him, grey dots dancing in the way. Two fingers groped at his neck, looking for his pulse. He swatted the hand away. He tried to push himself up and heard a groan that he then realised had come from himself. The hand moved to his shoulder.

“Don’t sit up yet.”

Martin moved away and reappeared in a moment, slipping something soft under his head. He leant back into the softness and closed his eyes again. The static was clearing, and he became aware of the room. The cold floor was hard against his back, Martin’s knees pressed gently against his ribs. His head pounded, like waves breaking against his brain. He opened his eyes and squinted up at Martin’s concerned face.

“You fainted,” Martin explained needlessly.

-

The van came to a stop outside Douglas’s house. Martin glanced over at his friend in the seat beside him. Douglas was pale and drawn leaning against the window of the van, but most striking to Martin was howoldthe man looked. Of course Martin knew that Douglas was quite a lot older than him, but it was easy to forget when Douglas was saving the company single-handed or helping the Scottish National Cricket Team carry a fire truck.

“Can I come in?”

Douglas sighed. He knew Martin would have questions. He knew it was right for Martin to have questions, but he didn’t want to face it. He didn’t have the energy to argue, so he nodded.

-

“So…” Martin began, having set two cups of tea on the coffee table. He turned a questioning face to Douglas.

Douglas said nothing, rubbing a hand across his forehead. It really did hurt.

“You’ll have to get a medical.”

Douglas flinched. “No.”

“There have been two occasions when you’ve been clearly unfit to fly.”

There was a pause. Douglas looked exhausted. His usual presence had dissolved, the easy confidence he wore nowhere to be seen. “I don’t need a medical,” he said at last.

“The protocol is clear,” Martin began.

“I _don’t_ need a medical,” Douglas insisted. His voice was tense and his eyes tightly closed.

“Douglas, as your captain, I am responsible for the safety of my aircraft and my crew.” Martin puffed out his chest slightly as he spoke, putting on his ‘definitely in command’ voice.

Douglas sighed, turning to look at his young captain. “There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just not sleeping.”

“Not-” Martin faltered, frowning. “Not sleeping _at all_?”

Douglas shook his head, closing his eyes again. He was tired. He wanted to stop.

Martin paused. “For how long?”

Douglas frowned. The recent days had become a blur. Nothing separated one from the next. “Six… seven days?”

“A week?” Martin exclaimed. “You haven’t slept properly for a week?”

Douglas flinched at the sound. Martin sighed forcefully, scratching his forehead. A quiet rage swelled inside him. He should have noticed. It should have been obvious days ago when Douglas voluntarily gave him control. He should have pushed it when Douglas sounded awful on the phone. He should have noticed that _something wasn’t right_ when they had gone a whole flight without a single word game. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself.

“Have you seen a doctor?” he asked eventually.

“In the past.”

Martin waited for him to expand, then continued when he didn’t. “Are there things you can do?”

Douglas raised his head and fixed Martin with a stern look. “Please don’t go groping through my medical history, Captain. If there was anything I could do would I not have done it by now?”

Martin dropped his eyes to the floor. “Is there…” he hesitated, “is there anything I can do?”

“You could stop talking so bloody loudly,.”

“Right, sorry,” Martin muttered, mostly to himself. He cleared his throat and spoke audibly: “Don’t bother coming in tomorrow. If the client calls I’ll fly it alone. I’ll square it with Carolyn.”

Douglas nodded slightly. “Cheers,” he said, his voice distant and slightly hoarse. He looked almost asleep, except for frown lines etched into his forehead and the obvious discomfort that settled there.

-

It didn’t make sense.

He didn’t remember Martin leaving but he wasn’t there anymore.

The sun had set and the central heating had come on with its attendant hum.

There were snatches. Glimpses of things that were probably real - headlights passing the front window, a cat crossing the garden - in between flashes of things that couldn’t possibly be - screaming instrument panels in hotel rooms, women without faces, the crying of a child that can’t be found. He ran for his life, to or from a destination unknown, whilst still being entirely aware that he was in his front room.

He opened his eyes, feeling like he was pulling his eyelids against a tide. Slowly, the room slid into focus. His body had settled and fossilised. An ache starting in his hips spread upwards through his spine to converge with the pain radiating down from his neck. Forcing his limbs to move felt like he was trying to communicate with them over a bad mobile phone signal.

He thought hard about getting up and finding food for a few minutes before the fog rolled back in.

-

The phone rang, and rang, and rang, and stopped. He dialled again. Rang, rang, rang, stopped. Again. Rang, stopped.

“He’s not picking up.”

“You know what he’s like,” Carolyn said at once. “He’s hiding.”

“I don’t know…”

“So go round there and peer through the letter box,” Carolyn suggested. “He’ll tell you to piss off and you’ll regret ever bothering.”

-

The house was dark as he pulled up outside. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked for messages and missed calls, hoping that he would be able to turn around and go home. There were none.

He rang the doorbell twice. There was no response, no sign of movement. He felt a slight tightness in his gut as he thought of what this could mean. He knelt in front of the letter box and peered through. The hallway was dark and empty as he had left it the day before. He stood and rang the doorbell again, holding the button down and listening as the peals echoed on and on. Eventually he released it, and was about to peer through the living room window when he saw movement through the small window in the door.

Douglas pulled the door open and turned immediately away, trudging back to his sofa. He wore flannel pyjamas with an old blue dressing gown slung haphazardly over his shoulders. Martin closed the front door quietly behind himself and followed Douglas into the living room. He sat leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, his head hanging over the empty space between his knees.

“Alright?” Martin asked.

Douglas did not move or respond.

Martin sighed. He looked round at the room, dark in the fading evening light. He followed the distinctly un-Douglas-like mess through to the kitchen. Crockery littered the surfaces. Plates and bowls held discarded toast or cereal, half-drank cups of tea beside them. He put the kettle on and set about clearing up.

-

“What exactly are you doing here?” Douglas asked eventually. His voice, muffled by his hands over his face, sounded strained.

“You weren’t answering your phone. I was worried.”

Martin hovered awkwardly in Douglas’s front room. He had cleaned up the kitchen, done the washing up and emptied the bins. When he finished Douglas had not moved from his bent over position on the sofa so Martin had proceeded to straighten up the living room, moving carefully around his motionless first officer. He found the copy of As I Lay Dying standing on its end behind the armchair and set it on the coffee table. Unable to find any more chores to do, he searched for a way of doing what he had come here to do.

“How are you feeling?” He bit his tongue as soon as the words escaped. What an utterly redundant question that was.

Douglas gave a growling sort of scoff and moved one of his hands to drag it across his face, then dropped it back into his lap.

“I’m guessing you haven’t slept…” Martin ventured. Douglas made the noise again, slightly louder and somehow carrying more derision. “But have you eaten anything recently?”

Martin watched Douglas closely as he waited for an answer. His whole upper body moved with each breath, making it painfully obvious that his breathing was uneven and harsh.

“I can’t,” he whispered eventually. His breath caught in his throat and the cough he gave in an attempt to cover it came too late.

Martin stepped closer and crouched beside him. To his shock, he found that there were tears running down Douglas’s face, collecting in the few day’s beard growth on his chin and then dripping onto the carpet. He looked broken. There was no other word for it.

“Oh god, Douglas,” Martin breathed, reaching instinctively for the older man’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” Douglas said, scrubbing at his face with his hand. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

For want of anything else to do, Martin reached his arms round Douglas’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug.

-

Martin’s shirt was damp and sticking to his chest where Douglas’s face rested against it. He ran his hand up and down his back, trying to imagine that he was comforting anyone in the world other than his intimidating colleague.

Douglas had been tense as Martin wrapped his arms around him. In his sleep-deprived brain he didn’t understand why his captain was touching him. But he found himself safe in the younger man’s firm grasp and his ragged breaths evened out as he relaxed.

The hug continued for several minutes. Martin had long since become uncomfortable and started planning how to extricate himself without dropping the fragile man in his arms onto the floor when Douglas’s hands fell away from his sides.

He was asleep.

-

Martin gently manoeuvred Douglas into a horizontal position on the sofa, holding his breath in fear that he would awaken. The heavy lines that had grown into Douglas’s skin over the last week were gone, his face a mask of relaxation. The faint laughter lines around his eyes were all that gave away his age. His mouth hung slightly open. His exhaustion had finally overtaken his insomnia, and he was a picture of relief.

-

Martin hovered. He didn’t know what to do next. Was it over? It seemed unlikely. He couldn’t imagine that dropping off in his arms - _in his arms_ , he cringed - would be enough to undo a week of sleep deprivation. On the other hand, he didn’t much fancy being there when Douglas woke up were he to recover any of his usual sharp-tongued cynicism.

After a few minutes he sighed, resigned himself to hanging around for a while, and put the kettle on.

-

Douglas gazed wearily over his mug of tea at the slightly bemusing sight of his captain cooking eggs in his pyjamas. He wasn’t entirely sure why Martin was there, and he had no idea whatsoever why he had his pyjamas with him. He didn’t have the energy to question it though, so he just blew over the surface of his tea to cool it.

He had woken up not long after he fell asleep on Martin, the sofa not being terribly comfortable and his back being all kinds of sore. He had a vague recollection of Martin prodding him upstairs to bed and, possibly, helping him undress. Did Martin really help him undress? He would think the memory a dream except that he had no other explanation for how he had got to bed and he couldn’t imagine why he would dream such a thing.

He had slept for ten hours, he estimated, and felt like a new man for it. His headache had gone, and he was enjoying being able to move his eyes without losing his peripheral vision. He was still shattered though; a week without sleep would not be remedied overnight. His eyelids felt heavy, and he had to blink rapidly to stay awake.

“I have slaved - slaved, I tell you - over these eggs,” Martin’s voice cut through his heavy confusion. “So I would like it if you made an effort to eat.”

Martin placed two plates on the table and sat beside him. Douglas met his gaze. “You stayed over night.”

Martin nodded, skewering an egg with his fork. “It was late, didn’t want to drive home.”

Douglas just gazed back at him, his eyelids drooping slightly.

“Had my flight bag in the van, made myself at home,” Martin continued. “You don’t mind?”

Douglas blinked back into reality. “No…” he said, “Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well he wouldn't let Martin help him if he was lucid, would he?


	3. Epilogue

“Morning Douglas!”

“Oh, hello, skiver. Nice to have you back.”

Douglas smiled at his colleagues. “It is delightful to be here,” he purred. “What is it today? A vital box to go to Peru? An horrendously overpaid executive to Seattle?”

“Looks like a romantic getaway,” Martin grinned, looking up from his paperwork.

“Ah, yes, the most romantic of gestures. ‘Here, darling, I chartered a perilous-looking metal box to fly us across the channel.’ If he really loved her they’d fly business class. Less flashy but infinitely more pleasant.”

“Yes, well, our jobs rely on the misguided opinions people have of charter flying so don’t knock it,” Carolyn pointed out brusquely. “Why don’t you take your sarcasm on the walk-around?”

“Your wish is my command.” Douglas bowed deeply, a smirk playing on his lips.

Carolyn threw her gloves at him, trying and failing to hide her smile. Martin glanced away and found Arthur grinning at him, looking for all the world like an excited puppy. He returned the smile and gathered his paperwork

“Alright, crew,” he said, “This week: Cannes!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so cheesy. Sorry not sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm sorry William Faulkner. I have a headcanon that Douglas deliberately picks up boring books to read in bed. Some may like As I Lay Dying. Douglas does not. Douglas finds it dull as hell. If you disagree, take it up with Douglas.


End file.
